The Stranger
by octoberv
Summary: Why does Harry Potter sit on the same rusted bar stool every night? And who is this stranger that notices?
1. Chapter 1

**The Stranger**

**Disclaimer: **All characters are created and owned by the magnificent J.K Rowling.

Chapter 1

The rain was beating a steady tattoo on the awning outside the pub as people scrambled by, their coats over their heads. Days like these, he liked to sit inside, wishing that the sound of thunder would calm his tangled thoughts. Harry Potter sat in his usual stool, oblivious to all around him. The bar was empty save for a couple of regulars seated in the booths in the far corner. But then again, he supposed it was a weekday night. Tuesday perhaps? He doesn't remember anymore. He reaches his glass out; the universal sign for a refill.

Some nights, he leaves early. Some nights he stays. Some nights, he doesn't trust himself alone in his room.

...

He recalls the first time the other man shared his space. The dark haired man was slowly drifting as he faintly registered the sound of someone hurriedly splashing through the door. The next minute, the tall figure had seated himself next to Harry. Something about the other man's presence is vaguely familiar, and Harry feels like he should be associating his scent with a stronger emotion. He is slipping, however, and is barely able to hear the stranger's order.

"_You need to find yourself a girl, mate," Ron says for the umpteenth time. _

"_Nah. Too busy helping you keep yours," Harry replies, the corners of his lips twitching._

"_Isn't that the truth," Ron mutters, but the smile that lights up his face is genuine._

...

A few days go by like this. The stranger never reveals his face. Even though a part of him identifies all too well with craving anonymity, Harry finds himself wanting to discern the stranger's guise. But the curiosity doesn't last long, as the effects of liquor kick in and the night hastily fades to dawn.

_There's an empty glass bottle on the table, and from the way Ron sways on his feet, its not hard to guess where it has all gone. _

"_I don't know how you drink that stuff, Ron." _

"_S'fun! I feel… nice. Free. C'mon Harry, we're Aurors, it's a dangerous job!" He enthusiasts, waving his hands for emphasis, knocking over the bottle in the process. _

_Harry snorts. "Never got used to the taste, myself." _

...

During the day, Harry goes from place to place, laughing, talking, being. He took a desk job after the incident. His coworkers don't know where he lives, and he prefers it that way. They have long since stopped trying to get him over for dinner, or on weekend travelling trips. To them, he is still the awkward boy who never got the chance to grow up. To others, he is the savior of the wizarding world—the brave young celebrity, or the tragic hero. The irony is, few know better.

The quiet bar is his only refuge, day after day. After all, he knows the cracks on the wall better than the lines that run through his palm. The starkness of the stains on the counter is his only measure of how far down the rabbit hole he is tonight.

He also knows the stranger's routine by now. Usually, the dark haired man has finished his first round before he walks in. Today, Harry has barely had time to feel those first creeping tendrils of intoxication. So, he watches him from the corner of his eye.

"Bourbon, please." The stranger says softly. Why can't he place that voice?

The bartender is already putting the amber liquid in front of him, negating the need for his previous sentence. An immaculate hand darts out to reach for the drink in front of him. Pale, slender fingers encircle the glass, and Harry vaguely wonders what someone so beautiful is doing in a place like this.

He doesn't go home that night.

...

It takes him a while to realize that he misses the presence of his silent companion. His heeled boots walk in later than usual, his black hooded cloak still covering his face. He smells like potions.

As he orders his usual, Harry could have sworn he saw a hint of an apology upon the man's pointy features.

...

"—_tomorrow!" _

_Laughter bubbled from his lips. It was the kind of laughter that was infectious, and pretty soon both Ron and him were doubled over in their booth, clutching the table for support. _

_Harry has long since forgotten the joke, but he never forgets the elation. Nothing else mattered at the time. How stupid were they to drop their guard so completely in a post-war period like this? They should have known better. He, Harry, should have known that danger was omnipresent, closing in—_

A crisp voice brakes through his reverie. It is softer than he expects. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Quickly suppressing the fleeting hesitation that ghosts through his body, Harry nods.

"Two bourbons" the stranger signals to the bartender. To his credit, the bartender only pauses for a second to acknowledge this shift in monotony.

As he swirls the amber liquid around, Harry speaks. "I never cared much for whiskey." His voice is raspy from disuse.

"No, Potter. I suppose I never pegged you for an alcoholic either."

Harry's head snaps up as the stranger finally removes his hood.

"Draco Malfoy," he breathes.

"Harry Potter."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Harry is rooted to the spot. What do you say to one another after all this time? Although he is surprised, he is more than a little intrigued.

All hostility forgotten, he finds himself saying "I'm not an alcoholic."

It is then that Harry decides that he doesn't appreciate Draco's piercing gaze, as grey eyes scrutinize him. He must not have found what he is searching for, because he looks away almost immediately. Something about the gaze is electrifying, and Harry is feels bereft the minute the connection breaks.

Harry turns back to his drink, downing it in one with the ease of someone who has had copious practice.

Draco looks at him pointedly, but still doesn't say anything.

Ignoring him, Harry signals for another. "I heard you turned to our side before shit hit the fan."

A low hum is the only response he receives. This takes Harry by surprise; the Draco he knew would have gloated. Probably with some smart remark about being on the winning side. He reminds himself that people change, and he cannot expect to hold the monopoly on that.

"You chose the winning side," Harry prompts, his tone carefully neutral.

Draco is silent for a couple minutes "I chose you."

Three syllables and Harry is at a complete loss. Who would have thought that he would be rendered mute by the words of Malfoy? Search as he might for any hints of emotion, he comes up empty.

It is a while before he realizes Malfoy is smirking.

"Prat." Harry huffs. "So how come you smell like Potions?"

…

They had covered the basics—profession, hobbies, favorite food, color, music, and even a contrite couple of fragments on their past relationships.

Some nights they would talk until they were the last ones left, interrupted only by the sudden brightness of the rising sun.

Others, they would sit in silence, and Harry would swear the leg brushing his had no effect whatsoever on his breathing.

….

Harry's vision was starting to blur.

"_You should come over more often," Ron says. _

"_More often than already?!" Harry exclaims. "I feel like I live there!" _

_Harry could always predict the way Ron dismissed his words with a brief gesture._

"—that's when the Ministry first started using dementors to as guards for Azkaban." Draco was saying.

The wealth of knowledge Draco had about the Wizarding world, courtesy of his upbringing, was astounding, and stories like that keep Harry from drifting back into his memories. 

…..

They had been kissing far too long to blame their actions on the few drinks they had.

Harry would be lying if he said that he hadn't thought about messing up that perfect blond hair before. Tentative hands are at the small of his back as Draco Malfoy is pushed against the wall. A small dent appears at the spot where it meets the clasp of Draco's golden watch. He supposed these walls housed memories of many illicit affairs, rushed hook-ups, or, in Harry's case, unconscious drunks. He wondered what category they would fit into right now.

…..

The first time they fuck, Harry leaves bite marks on Draco's shoulder that doesn't heal for a week.

He fights to keep his eyes open, wanting watch Draco as he cries out his name in the dingy room above the pub.

Harry feels indecent and exposed. It is exhilarating.

…

Tonight they match each other drink for drink.

Draco lets out a sigh. "Why can't I figure you out Potter?"

"There's nothing to figure out," Harry says roughly, lips still swollen from their earlier tryst.

"What do you want? Why aren't you living your white picket fence life, basking in your glory?"

"Not all of us can be members of the gentry," Harry snaps.

Draco exhales through his nose with the impatient air of someone dealing with a particularly recalcitrant child. "Forget it."

He looks up to see the apology reflected in emerald eyes. "Being here makes me feel alive."

That is all Draco needs. Twenty minutes later he comes violently inside Harry, all trace of aristocracy gone. At that moment, their world is reduced to each other, frozen in time.

…

Harry lets the cigarette dangle from his fingers as he sits up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He stares at the only picture that adorns the wall in the barren room—a generic image of a sunflower. The thick smell of smoke does little to mask the stench of sex that hovers in the air and clings to the fabric of their clothes.

"_A signed Cannons portrait!" Ron yells, ripped scarlet wrappings lying haphazardly on the ground beside his crossed legs. "Thanks Harry!" he beams, fingering the hard wood frame. _

_Harry grins, glad to finally give him an excuse to take the hideous painting off the wall._

Blonde hair tickles his neck as the other man comes up behind him, the length of his chest pressing flush against his back. Lean arms wrap around his stomach in a bold gesture.

"I can tell when you disappear into your head, Potter."

After a moment's quiet, he feels rather than hears Draco's sigh.

"C'mon," Draco mutters, placing a chaste kiss to the curve of his collarbone. He feels the absence of the familiar weight on the bed as Draco fluidly gets up and tosses him his shirt from the floor.

"You can't keep wearing that sweater, it's dreadful. Even someone like Weasley wouldn't have gone around in—"

"DON'T SAY HIS NAME!" Harry shouts, whipping around to face Draco. "And don't you DARE talk about him as if he's already dead! You don't know anything, you— you—.

It takes a while for him to regain his composure. Draco wisely says nothing. The silence stretches like a void between them, growing until the only sound that remains is that of Harry's heavy breathing. At last, Harry chokes "He'll come back. He told me so."

Draco inhales sharply, scarcely able to contain the involuntary gasp. He casts his gaze downward, frantically wanting to look anywhere but into the Savior's impossibly green eyes. How could Harry not know? He thought it was common knowledge.

Unfortunately, Harry catches the sound. "…You _know_?"

His voice is barely above a whisper, as if saying it any louder would taint the response. Draco hears the loaded question for what it is: a plea, filled to the brim with desperation and hopeless longing. He recognizes that by remaining silent, he is practically admitting the truth.

Harry holds his breath, childishly craving an assurance that does not come.

A tiny, strangled sound escapes his parted lips and in a split second, Harry's world shatters. And Draco Malfoy finally knows why he finds the hero of the Wizarding world in the corner of this bar every night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **All characters are created and owned by the magnificent J.K. Rowling

_It had been just another day. He snoozed his alarm for those extra five minutes and his coffee could have melted plastic. He always forgot to title his reports and had to go back to label them. _

_Harry and Ron frequented this bar every Friday._

"_Best be getting back, I told Herm I'd go with her to some museum early tomorrow." Ron rolled his eyes. _

_Harry smiled. "Sure, let's get going. I told George I'd help him in the shop too." _

_The moment they had stepped into the alley behind the pub, Harry sensed that something was wrong. A lifetime of training had alerted him immediately to the twin cracks of Apparition. In a split second, his wand was out from his sleeve, pointed upwards into the night air. _

_In the time it took Ron to process, two burly men came around the corner and pressed the tip of a wand to Ron's temple. The other man's wand was steadily trained on Harry, but not before he landed a punch to Ron' gut. _

"_RON! Ron, are you okay?" _

"_Fine," came the muffled reply. _

"_Move your lips again, Harry Potter, and your friend dies," the first man spat. Harry loosely identified the voice belonging to one of the Death Eaters present at Voldemort's return. _

_Burning with fury, the air surrounding Harry began to crackle. _

_Apprehensive, the Death Eaters glanced at each other. "Stay back, we're taking him. If he gives us the information we want, you may even have your friend back," one of them spoke up. _

"_Cowards!" Harry hissed, refusing to lower his wand. _

_Slowly, they began to back up, dragging the struggling Ron with them. _

"_Get off me, you bastards! Don't worry about me, Harry, I'll be back here by tomorrow night," Ron said before vanishing on the spot. _

_The sound of Disapparation crashed down like an explosion around Harry's ears. _

_If he had known that would be the last time he would see Ron wink, he might have smiled back. _

Aurors, squads and his friends had searched for weeks, only to come up with an empty trail. A while after, they had found the Death Eaters in question dead on the bank of a river. Ron was nowhere to be found.

Like he said, he took a desk job after the incident. No one would argue with the Saviour's wishes anyway. The Weasleys tried cajoling him into moving in, and Hermoine was ready to drag him to Australia with her. He made his excuses, packed his bag and left that night, finally leaving behind the world he had almost given his life for.

Yet Harry never missed another night to be at the pub, hoping to catch a glimpse of flaming red hair dripping with water, and a low voice grumbling about forgetting an umbrella yet again.

It's a thin line between remembering and forgetting. Harry started drinking to forget. Ironically, he also drinks to remember. To remember how it felt to have his best friend at his side, or sitting across from him. To remember safety as a physical state instead of a nebulous theory he can't really grasp. He aches for a place where he isn't walking on the shattered glass remains of his world, and where he doesn't need the orange cylindrical bottle by his bedside. To go back to a time where his world was whole, and he could bear to be sober for 24 hours straight.

But more than anything, as he feels Draco's arms suddenly supporting him, he longs to feel more than a ghostly touch, yearns to feel the electricity through his fingertips, and the tenderness in light kisses. Harry wonders if it is too much to ask to be divested of this perpetual numbness—to love something with not just his wasted heart. But instead, with kneecaps, knuckles, and the spaces between his fingers.

He blinks out tears, and looks up at Draco.

Draco, whose past Death Eater ties made him privy to certain information. His lover, whose silence was enough to confirm his best friend's death. For a moment, Harry thinks that Draco is going to apologize, and he doesn't want to hear it.

"I need to be alone," says Harry, roughly pulling out of Draco's grip.

He leaves the door ajar in his wake, letting in a chilly night breeze that wracks Draco's frame in an instinctive shiver.


End file.
